Zed did. He hoped that knowing he was being subjected to brainwashing was enough to keep him safe. Fahid couldn’t see inside his head. No one could. They didn’t know his thoughts. They didn’t know that he longed to be loved but not by them, that he longed to love but didn’t want to love them.
He didn’t need Islam to show him how to be a good person. He’d been a good boy—mostly—but after his mother died he’d been beaten, never praised, always pushed to do better. He was scared of what Fahid would do if he found out he was gay. Zed didn’t dare tell his brother. If his secret was uncovered, he was dead. He wished he was just exaggerating but he wasn’t.
How sad that he felt relieved not to be flamboyant, that he didn’t gesture or speak or walk in a camp way, that he didn’t want to wear bright clothes, or wave rainbow flags, or shout out his gayness as something to be proud of. There were many shades of gay and Zed had to avoid them all. Guilt settled in his heart. One day, he promised himself. One day his life would be a true one.
Then Zed caught snippets of conversation that worried him. Discussions where doors were closed but walls were thin, or when talk abruptly ceased as he entered a room. When he was given money to go and buy something he knew was already in the house, he wondered what they were discussing that they didn’t want him to know about.
Perhaps his wariness showed on his face because Fahid came to him and said all this secrecy was because they were planning a party for one of his old friends from Syria. Zed smiled. He knew a lie when he heard it. He listened when he could though he didn’t know what he was listening for or what he’d do if he heard something he couldn’t keep quiet about.
He’d fled from one snake and jumped into a pit of them. He almost didn’t want Tamaz to come and see him because he didn’t want him to be involved with whatever was going on. Zed didn’t think his brother was involved, though he wasn’t sure. Yet he had a key to the house. Why? There was a fever of excitement in the house, a sense of anticipation that seemed to centre on Parwez, and that worried Zed because for Parwez, Fahid and Islam were everything.
Zed’s search for a job was fruitless. Tamaz told him he’d sent for Zed’s National Insurance number, but it hadn’t yet arrived. Even those places who were willing to take on employees who worked for cash in hand, doing nothing more than washing dishes in restaurants and kebab shops required someone other than him. Someone older, stronger, more experienced, not olive skinned, not an immigrant. Pointless protesting he was born here. He grew despondent when every job possibility Wasim or Fahid told him about sooner or later turned to ashes. Zed began to suspect they knew before he went for an interview that there would be no job. And yet he asked himself, did he want a job they’d found for him?
The answer was no.
Zed sneaked off to London and searched on his own, wandered up and down streets looking for adverts in windows, scouring the Metro and Evening Standard newspapers, asking in the markets. He found nothing. To cheer himself up he went to the piano in St Pancras and played Grieg, flushing with embarrassment when he was applauded by a crowd who’d gathered around him.
Back at the house, Fahid showed his displeasure with him for the first time. Zed saw a different man. Maybe the real Fahid. A harsh, rigid, unforgiving man. He called Zed ungrateful, wanted to know exactly where he’d been and what he’d done. Zed told him. Just not about the piano.
Fahid shook his head. “You must learn patience. There may be a job cleaning the house of the imam.”
Zed knew his jaw had dropped and he snapped it back into place. Shit. Cleaning? “Alhamdulillah.” Praise be to Allah.
Fahid had friends over for dinner that night. Zed helped prepare the meal and for dessert made Ranginak, a date and walnut pie that had been his mother’s favourite. He wasn’t invited to the meal so he went up to his room which sat right over the kitchen. The mumble of conversation, the lack of laughter, intrigued him.
Maybe he shouldn’t have lain on the floor and pressed his ear to the floorboards, but he did. When he realised what they were talking about, his heart stopped.
Chapter Ten
When Caspian opened his eyes, his mother was at his side. She clung to his hand and cried, and all he could think was that he felt wrong. Had something else happened? She called the doctor who told him he’d nearly died. He’d been put in a medically induced coma because he’d had a bleed on the brain. Two weeks spent in intensive care, though he didn’t remember any of it.
He didn’t speak to his mother. He was afraid he’d blurt out the truth. She believes you were driving. He wondered now if that meant she knew the truth or not? If he told her he hadn’t been driving, would she believe him? If she didn’t, he’d have destroyed the family for nothing because once those words were said, once he’d suggested Lachlan had been behind the wheel, and he and his father were lying, she’d have to wonder. Wouldn’t she? Or did she know the truth and this was all pretence? Fuck it.
On the day he was due to leave hospital, physio having brought him back close to his normal self, though he still had occasional dizzy spells, Caspian reconsidered his decision to never talk again. That afternoon he was due to appear in the Magistrates’ Court and if he was to have any control over what happened to him, he had to speak.
A nurse helped him put on the clothes brought in for him to wear. Caspian had assumed his father would bring him a suit, but instead it was his school uniform, he guessed to make him look as young as possible. The sleeve of his blazer only just went over his cast.
He was sitting in a chair waiting when Appleby arrived.
“Hello,” Caspian said.
“He speaks! At last. Remember whatever you say to me is confidential, okay?”
“What’s going to happen today?” Caspian asked.
“You’ll appear at two this afternoon. That’s where we’ll enter a guilty plea. Because you’re only seventeen, it’s your first offence and you’re unlikely to abscond, plus you’ve been in hospital recovering from life-threatening injuries, you’ll be allowed to go home until you’re called to the Crown Court for sentencing. I doubt very much that you’ll get a custodial sentence, though it’s possible. Three girls died.”
I fucking know. “I’m not pleading guilty.”
Appleby gaped at him. “But…”
“I didn’t kill anyone. I’m not going to plead guilty to something I didn’t do.”
“You were driving without a licence or insurance.”
“I have a driver’s licence.”
The lawyer drew in a breath. “Ah, that changes things.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“If you weren’t driving, who was?”
Caspian didn’t answer.
“If you’re trying to protect someone, would he or she really want you to take the blame?”
If only you knew.
“Look, Caspian. If you plead guilty you’ll get a lesser sentence, though not the reduced sentence you’d get if you didn’t have a licence. A guilty plea saves time and expense, and in particular, it saves the families of those girls from the harrowing experience of coming to court to both hear and give evidence. Do you want them to sit there and listen to how their children’s lives ended?”
No, but…
“The earlier the guilty plea is entered, the more credit the court will award for it. If you plead not guilty and are found guilty, your sentence will be longer and almost definitely custodial. Think carefully.”
“I want to plead not guilty, but that’s all I’ll say. My name and not guilty. I won’t talk when we’re in court. Not a word.”
The lawyer clenched his jaw. “You don’t have to do anything other than that in this first hearing.”
“I won’t talk in the trial.”
Appleby groaned. “Please discuss this with your father. He’s expecting you to plead guilty this afternoon.”
“That’s the other thing.” He swallowed hard but the lump in his throat stayed put. “I don’t want to go home. I want to b
e remanded in custody. Tell them I’m a flight risk, that I ran away from boarding school twice—I did. If they send me home, I will run. I’ll go abroad. Tell them that. If you don’t, I will, and I’ll run from the court.”
Appleby gaped at him. “You do realise the sort of place you’ll be sent to? It could be six months to a year before the case comes to trial.”
“I don’t care. I won’t go home.”
The lawyer left and Caspian braced himself for the visit from his father.
The majority of the nursing staff and doctors had been kind, but Caspian tensed every time someone new came into his room. He’d wondered if any of the fathers of the girls would find a way in, what he’d do if they did. Not press the button for the nurse. Let them say and do whatever they wanted.
In everyone’s mind but his, his father’s and Lachlan’s, Caspian was a spoilt privileged boy who’d taken his father’s car without permission and as a result of his reckless, dangerous driving three lives had been cut short, the happiness of three families destroyed. Four if they counted his own. Caspian felt guilty even though he wasn’t.
Yet in a way hadn’t it been partly his fault? If he hadn’t run from the house, then Lachlan wouldn’t have come after him. If Caspian had never met Zed? If he hadn’t been born? He would always feel guilty even though he hadn’t been behind the wheel. He wondered what his father would do to help the girls’ families. Scholarships for the other children? Holidays? He’d have to be careful not to look as though he was trying to buy their forgiveness, but he’d do something, wouldn’t he?
Caspian nervously rocked back and forth on the chair in his room. In his hand, he clutched a bag of drugs issued by the hospital pharmacy. Painkillers and antibiotics. Not enough painkillers to stop all pain forever. He’d never thought of himself as being capable of suicide but… But…
When he started to slide, and he’d found himself sliding a lot since he’d come out of the coma, he’d thought about Zed and let the memory of their kisses warm his broken heart. He wondered where Zed was, what he was doing, if he was safe, if he’d found someone to be with. As much as it hurt, Caspian hoped he had.
Had Zed thought about him? Tried to find out why he hadn’t turned up at the station? He should have. Why did he just accept my non-appearance? Then Caspian’s throat filled with bitter anger at having been betrayed twice. He’d once thought he was as lonely as he could get and he’d been wrong.
His father blasted into the room like a thunderstorm, the doors flung wide, his face twisted in anger. “We’re leaving now.”
As Caspian pushed wearily to his feet, the door opened again and a porter came in with a wheelchair. Caspian was propelled in silence to the hospital exit and from there, he and his father strode to the car. Well, his father strode, Caspian shuffled.
The car was empty and he assumed his father had dispensed with his driver because he didn’t want anyone to hear what he was going to say.
Once they were both buckled in, it started.
What the hell was he thinking?
This had all been decided.
Why hadn’t he told them he’d passed his test?
Was he trying to destroy the family?
Ruin his brother?
Devastate his mother?
What did he mean he wanted to be remanded in custody?
Was he insane?
His father gasped after he’d said that and gave a short laugh. “That’s it. We need to tell Appleby. You’re having a breakdown. You’re unfit to plead.”
No I’m not.
“If that’s not going to work, we go into court, you plead guilty and we go home. You are not going to abscond. I’ll make sure of it.”
How? Chain me up like Zed’s father did?
“I’ve spoken to several friends who have knowledge of these things. There’s a slim chance of you getting sent to a YOI, a Young Offender Institution. More likely, you’ll be back at home with a smack on the wrist, you’ll return to school and life will go on. This…blip on your record won’t have any effect on the sort of job you’d get.”
Caspian stared out of the window. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
“You can’t seriously want this to go to trial, to have our name dragged through the mud. The jury will hardly need to leave the courtroom to come to a decision.”
But his father and brother would have to come to court and listen, to understand what Lachlan had done, to see what they were doing to Caspian and remember that for the rest of their lives.
They met the lawyer outside the Magistrates’ Court. Caspian’s head ached. He was exhausted. He just wanted this over with and the easy way was to plead guilty, but he wouldn’t. He knew a jury would find him guilty, he accepted that. But he wasn’t going to admit to what he’d not done. Ever.
“Have you been able to talk any sense into him?” Appleby asked.
“I’ve talked. He hasn’t. Let him have what he wants. See how long he lasts without all the comforts he’s used to.” His father was stiff-jawed with fury.
It was over quite quickly. Caspian spoke in front of a panel of magistrates to confirm his name—the whole bloody stupid thing—and to enter his plea of not guilty.
His lawyer made him look a flight risk which saved Caspian having to try and run from the court. He wouldn’t have got far but he’d have made his point. Caspian got what he wanted. A stay on remand in Woodbury Young Offender Institution in North London. His bloody father stood and said he thought it would be good for his son to come to terms with the seriousness of what he’d done. Caspian knew his father would never pay for what he’d done. Chosen one son over another. Chosen the guilty son over the innocent one.
Caspian was driven to his future home in a security van along with three others. He sat on an uncomfortable moulded plastic seat in one of the van’s six cubicles. There were no seat belts. If he hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt the day of the accident, he might have died. Would his brother have still moved him? Probably. Those in the van with him were discussing why there were no seatbelts and concluded it was in case any of them tried to hang themselves or kill each other. Really? Could you do that?
Refusing to talk in the van had made him realise staying silent was going to piss off people he really didn’t want to piss off. Maybe he should only stay silent when questioned about what happened the day his life had shot in the wrong direction. There was no point making things more difficult than they needed to be.
He was led from the van to a windowless reception room and asked his full name and date of birth. Oh fuck. He had to give the whole damn thing again. The guy smirked. From there he was taken to another room where two prison officers were waiting.
“Stand there,” one said. “We’re going to take your picture for your ID card.”
Caspian had always thought mugshots he’d seen on the TV were grim things. They made people look bad but maybe their expression came from the sudden realisation that they were swimming in a sea of deep shit. Caspian thought about smiling but didn’t. Couldn’t.
“Sit on the chair,” the other guy said.
On the weird grey unit that looked like a cross between a badly designed set of steps and an uncomfortable wheelchair?
“What is it?” Caspian asked.
“A BOSS chair. Body Orifice Security Scanner. It’ll tell us if you’ve stuffed a phone up your arse, or a memory stick, SIM card, shank, razor blade, handcuff keys, parts for a gun, metal cylinder with drugs, and a whole lot of other things.”
Caspian cringed. The only thing he wanted up—right, not going there. He sat on the chair. He didn’t expect there to be a beep but was still relieved when there wasn’t.
“You can get up.”
Caspian stood.
“Now take off all your clothes.” The taller man stared at him.
“Why do I have to do that when the chair didn’t find anything?”
“Do as you’re told.”
Caspian wasn’t shy about getting undressed for games at
school but these were men, it was different. It felt wrong. They pulled on rubber gloves and a light went off in his head. Dare I? Why the fuck not?
He took off his shoes and socks and set them aside. As he began to undress, he swayed as if he was moving to music. He fixed his gaze on the better looking of the two, shrugged off his blazer then slowly unfastened his tie. He twirled it around his head before letting it fly. The guard it was heading toward flicked it aside. Caspian pushed open the buttons of his shirt, pulled it off, struggled to get it over his cast, then held it out before flicking his fingers and letting it fall. Caspian gave a long sigh and swept both hands down his chest, skipping over his scar, to his trousers.
Maybe they were interested to see if he kept going because they didn’t stop him. Caspian had been trying to annoy them off and it hadn’t worked. He removed his last item of clothing, his boxers, turned around and bent over. He’d made it a little less humiliating, but it was still embarrassing. Fortunately, the inspection of his arse and balls was over quickly and he was told to get dressed. His blazer and tie were placed in a plastic container. A sheet of stickers showing his picture and prison number had been printed off and one was stuck to the container.
“Sign here,” he was told.
He signed.
“Are you going to get other clothes brought in?” the guy asked. “Prisoners on remand are allowed to wear their own gear.”
Caspian shook his head. He had no idea, but he suspected not. His father would expect him to grovel for help and that wasn’t going to happen. He was handed a see-through plastic bag that apparently held blankets, sheets, pillowcase, T-shirt, jeans, jumpers, pants, socks, white trainers, basic toiletries. He missed some of what was said but they gave him a list. Another signature required. It all had to be returned at the end of his stay. Did they think he’d want to take it with him? His hospital medication, painkillers and antibiotics, were handed back to him. Well, not all the painkillers. He had to ask for those if he needed more.
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